


Joy Out of Deep Stone

by lferion



Series: Iron and Light [11]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Thorin Lives, Babies, Childbirth, Community: fan_flashworks, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Fatherhood, Introspection, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin had never thought to hold a child of his own getting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joy Out of Deep Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glorfindel (Zana)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zana/gifts).



> This is several years in the future in Iron & Light, and gives some ideas as to developments not yet touched on in posted things. A hazard of a story insisting on being written out of order. Hopefully it makes sense in itself. Started for the Fan_Flashworks prompt 'Family' and posting now because I don't want to wait for the next Amnesty. 
> 
> Thanks go to Morgynleri, Zana, & Ickaimp for encouragement, concrit (especially when my complicated sentences got too complicated) & sanity-checking. 
> 
> For Zana, who wanted to see Thorin with his first child.

* * *

* * *

Thorin had never thought to hold a child of his own getting. He had never been personally much interested in children at all, not even when he was one. Frerin and Dis excepted of course, but they were family. As a child, son of the crown prince, grandson of the King Under the Mountain, Thorin had understood that at some point he would be expected to marry. (A politic bride, no doubt, most likely chosen for him, not his own selection, or possibly — though not at all likely, given that he was the firstborn — a politic groom for a husband.) He would be expected to be gracious and uncomplaining in his domestic arrangements (though, given that such a marriage had little to do with affection or attraction, discrete accommodations for congenial company would be overlooked, and wouldn't there be ticketing and tacketing over him knowing such things, and he not yet 30, much less 77, or even 48 and of an age when such things might be physically relevant to know). But first and foremost he would be expected to produce offspring: at least one, and preferably more. That was a good long way in the future, however, and of less than no personal interest. Smith-craft, statecraft, weapons-practice, lessons (even the ones on precedence and other minutia of court and hall) all more interesting than thinking about an uncomfortable future duty. 

(Frerin on the other hand had delighted in playing parent to their collection of toy figures, and would discuss the ever-changing merits of his future spouse or the names of his future children at the least provocation. Thorin and Dis had both preferred to play battles or traders or the Adventures of Durin the Deathless, which Frerin would happily join in with as well — speculating on just who the first Durin's wife had been at odd moments. There had been more than one childish and then youthful argument about what a horrible parent Thorin would make, since he liked the idea so little. Even now — especially now — Thorin was not entirely sure Frerin (or Dís) had been wrong.) 

He had been too young to quite understand what the word betrothal or prenuptial meant, overhearing Thrain and his grandmother speaking of Fundin's youngest as a suitable possibility: kin, but of a sufficiently removed degree, likely to be possessed of intelligence and skill, certain to be brought up with an appropriate appreciation and understanding of duty and station, and even as an infant the child was already demonstrating a refreshingly forthright stubbornness. Thorin had long forgotten he had even heard that discussion, remembering it only when one of the less fractious of the lords and counselors arguing over Thorin's duty to marry had wondered whether any plans or negotiations had been in progress before the Exile. Thorin had largely ignored or avoided discussions of that sort as a youth, but he had not been entirely unaware of the names brought up most often.

After the dragon, more immediate concerns made any speculation moot. Not until they had found (made, bought) a place in Ered Luin (and after even more grievous losses) could thought be given to the now pressing subject of rebuilding families and clans. Thror had arranged for Dís to marry Vilí before they had marched to disastrous war against the Orcs infesting Khazad-dum. The news that she was expecting — entirely unexpected given how briefly they had been married; it was rare for a child to arrive before the first decade had passed — was the only gold in a year of slag and barren tailings. 

And while once there had been all manner of jostling and maneuvering for Prince Thorin's attention, the new King in Exile was not so overtly plagued. (Thorin never did understand how effective his sheer disinterest — which some, wrongly, took for obliviousness — was at stopping direct romantic attempts and traps.) Having Dwalin newly as a fixture at his side was another discouragement to the importunate. Though Thorin did know a certain number of people assumed more to that relationship than had existed at the time.

Neither Balin nor Dis saw any reason to change that state. It was far simpler and much more politic to handle those who sought to use Thorin in their machinations of marriage and alliance between them rather than getting Thorin involved. They knew his wishes well enough, and better to be the expected smooth and manipulative in response than muddle the situation with Thorin's forthright refusal. (Thorin was grateful, in truth. Certainly in retrospect, but even at the time he had known something of the matter.) Besides, Dís was married, her husband a Longbeard, if not a direct descendant of Durin. Her children would be his heirs.

He had held Fíli and Kíli as moments-old infants, terrified and awed at the miracle of them, heart full to overflowing with love even as he worried for their future, for Dís's health, for how very small and fragile and wonderful they were. But there had been relief, as well, that the Line had heirs, first one, then two. (Gimli had also added to that relief, red-headed and energetic at mere hours old, distant though he was in the order of succession.) He had had a hand in the princes' upbringing, raising them as his heirs, proud to be their uncle. When Vilí had died, he and Dwalin both had taken up the few duties of a parent they had not already assumed, but not the title, Vilí was and would remain Fíli and Kíli's father.

No, Thorin had never looked to hold a child of his own. Not even in the contentious wrangling with the lords and council after he had wakened from the Sleep under Stone over their insistence that he marry before they would 'allow him to take up the Kingship' (never mind that he _was_ King, by right, tradition and the Mountain's own welcome: one could not rule without the will of the people, lords and council in particular), or the even more bitter fight over his choice of bride — Taelin was his choice, make no mistake, and he hers, as informed and freely given as circumstance allowed, not the council's, not at all — had he truly believed there would be a child. He and Taelin (and Dwalin and Bofur, in their own way) had worked together for that outcome, but he had not allowed himself expectation, even in the midst of effort joyful and difficult both.

Taelin had produced a miracle more astonishing than his own waking to the world again, and one he had hardly dared hope for, even as she had serenely gone about her days, unplagued by the difficulties that had confined Dís to her bed for nearly the whole of both pregnancies. 

The hours of labor had been more fraught than any battle. Thorin had spent much of the time pacing the same long corridor that had seen him newly woken taking his first uncertain steps. When not pacing, he stood at the edge of the overlook, hands clenched on the balustrade, a barely breathing statue, gazing sightlessly out at the glimmering lights of Erebor busy with industry and life. Bofur stood with him, trying just as hard not to panic, as frightened and worried for Taelin as he was, equally frustrated at there being nothing they could do but wait. Dwalin, told by Bifur in no uncertain terms that he was in no shape to be standing guard over a cold forge, much less the king and royal family, had bowed to the truth of the matter and loudly gone off to practice axe-forms until he was too tired to think. 

Labor accomplished, Taelin declared herself tired and sore, but nothing near prostrate, will you stop fussing, please? All of you. She had over-ridden the midwife, insisting that not just Thorin but Dwalin and Bofur as well be admitted to her room as soon as she was settled in bed and the child returned to her arms, cleaned and swaddled in new linen and cloud-soft wool. 

Now, looking down at the tiny, dark head nestled in the crook of his elbow, Thorin had no words at all for the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him, though his mind insisted on trying to produce them. Joy and grief, terror and wonder — so many hazards, dangers beset this small, new life, not least his own failings, potential and actual. What if Frerin were right? (As he had countless times already, Thorin vowed again to be the best parent possible. The best King for all his people, most especially this little one. To do and be both, somehow. Maker hear him, let him be both.) With the cramp of fear was mixed breath-stealing wonder: perfect, minute fingers holding fast to one of his braids, silky cap of Durin-black hair, a weight that was mithril in his arms, star-iron in his breast. Already there was a person beneath that silky cap of Durin-black hair, behind those still-clouded sapphire — lapis — Durin-blue eyes. 

He bent to press gentle lips to the rumpled, red forehead of his firstborn. "Mahal keep you, _Hôfuk udu Buzrában_ " he breathed, a name for the child's and the Maker's ears alone. "May you know the joy of making, the beauty of stone, the love of kin and clan, and may your days be long and bright under Mahal's hand."

There would be a formal ceremony of Naming and Welcoming, of course, a great public spectacle. Ereborean tradition would have the first utterance of the heir's outer name be then. Well, the first public announcement could be then. 

"Welcome to the world, Tyrin," he murmured around the tightness in his throat. He paid no heed to the tears tracing his cheeks, dampening his beard. "Well come, child of the Mountain, of my flesh and your mother's work of making, child of my heart, welcome."

**Author's Note:**

> Hôfuk udu Buzrában means 'Joy out of deep stone'
> 
> Image found here: Michael Clark Art - Opal Sculptures [Cradle of Life](http://michaelclarkartopalsculptures.blogspot.com/2012_06_01_archive.html) with several more views of the piece.


End file.
